Chapter Text
There was a sharp inhale behind his chair, then, “shit”.
He was already on his feet and walking over before she sounded the ‘t’. “Seven! You’re awake!”
Despite the glaze of fatigue over her eyes, she nevertheless rolled them impressively, before glancing around the surgery, frowning.
“You’re safe,” he assured her, as he grabbed a tricorder from the small table beside the biobed. “No one knows you’re here.”
She nodded, then winced, closing her eyes for a moment. Despite all his efforts, her complexion still resembled sour milk, and deep shadows lined her eyes. The infection was under control, but far from gone.
Of course, that didn’t stop her shoving herself up on her good arm a few seconds later, inspecting the infected one with obvious disapproval.
“I was able to start treating the infection, and it should be gone in a few days,” he began eagerly. “You should recover full function after physiotherapy, though I’m afraid you’ll probably experience some lingering neuropath—”
“Great. Where’s my jacket?”
She hadn’t as much as looked at him.
He swallowed. “Is that all you have to say.”
Silence sat heavy between them for a moment. Then she pushed herself up to a sitting position, and finally glanced his way. “Thank you. Now, my jacket?”
Anger threatened to boil over and drown out his professional concern, so to give himself a moment, he walked to the closet on the other side of the office. Taking a deep, and unusually necessary breath, and letting it go, he retrieved the singed and now single-sleeved jacket, then paused to shake it out (and take another breath) before he turned around. “I’m afraid it was hardly my first concern. You’ll forgive me, I hope, for valuing your life over a sleeve.”
Her lips went tight. “As I said, I appreciate your efforts. Now, give it to me.”
That was it. “I think not. You do not need it at present, and I have more than a few questions for you, once we’ve discussed the next stage of your treatment.” He couldn't keep the fury and disappointment out of his voice anymore. “Why the hell did you wait so long to get treatment? And where have you been all this time?”
She leveled a glare at him for four point nine seconds, then shut her eyes again, and sighed.
The buzz of his consoles blared like angry static in the silence.
At last, she met his gaze again, with eyes grim and grey in her ghastly face, and her voice was heavy with fatigue as she said, “I can’t stay here. It isn’t safe. But give me my jacket, and I’ll answer what questions I can before I leave.”
It wasn’t what he wanted. But time and bitter experience had long taught him to be grateful for what scraps he could get. He nodded, and handed it over.
Seven fumbled one-handed with it for a minute, before pulling something out of the pocket: a small transparent ‘card’ of some kind, with a circular logo in the middle. She pressed a thumb to it, and the circle lit up.
“What is that?” he asked, with resentful curiosity.
“Just calling for a ride.”
He folded his arms. “Surely even you have the common sense to realise that you’re in no shape to go anywhere. You need antibiotics, analgesics, and probably a couple more surgeries on that arm.”
A hitch of the shoulder, that might have been a shrug. “I’ll have to make do with what we have.”
“’We’ being the Fenris Rangers, I assume? Or did you leave them behind too?”
If the ‘too’ bothered her, she hid it well. “I’m still a ranger. The ex-neutral zone is flooded with more drug dealers, traffickers, and smugglers than ever. It needs us.”
“And your friends here don’t?”
She did flinch this time, and it was hard not to take satisfaction in it. “Federation space, and in particular planets like Earth and Vulcan, are safer than most parts of the galaxy. I have little reason to be concerned for the former crew of voyager.”
“I’m not talking about threats to our lives, Seven. I’m talking about friendship. Caring about people. Helping each other. Or did you forget all of Admiral Janeway’s lessons?”
She threw her legs over the bed and surged to her feet, eyes blazing. “Caring about people? I do nothing but care all the damn day, in places where Starfleet sure as hell doesn’t. You might try stepping outside your pampered practice and putting your skills to use out there for once.”
“How dare you.” Photons burned in his throat. “I spent the first seven years of my existence in one of the most dangerous regions of the galaxy, through no choice of my own. I saved the crew constantly, you included, with no thought for my own safety or comfort. And may I add that if it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead or a drone, still stuck in the collective.”
Her eyes narrowed, but as she began what was no doubt, a scathing retort, her legs gave out and he had to dive to save her from hitting the floor for the second time in twenty-four hours.
He helped her to sit back on the biobed, though she pulled away from him a second after, breathing hard. As rage and shame did battle inside him, he turned back to his consoles for a moment and opened the next day’s case files. Strings of data danced over the screens: numbers and names and medications. Simple things that he understood. Things he could deal with.
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice was so quiet that he almost didn’t catch it. He stopped typing for a moment, staring blankly at the screen. Reply, you idiot.
But what could he say?
“I’m no longer used to friendship, at least, not the kind we have had in the past. I have valued colleagues among the Rangers, and some I call friends. But our work is the most important part of our connection, and we prioritize that. We try to keep our feelings out of it.”
“I suppose you’re content then.” Photonic tears pricked at his eyes. “You never did enjoy my sentimentality. My exuberance.”
There was no reply for a minute, and he rubbed his eyes, as quickly and efficiently as possible. No room for criticism there.
Then another sigh. “I have missed you, Doctor. And many of my former friends among the crew.”
He had to face her at that point. “Then why did you never come back? Never even let us know you were still alive?”
She was hunched over on the biobed now, hugging her bad arm to herself. She had evidently been trying to turn her jacket into a crude sling, though it currently lay folded and discarded beside her. She stared at it for a few seconds, then said softly, “It was not safe for you, any of you. Starfleet condemns our work in the ex-neutral zone, and would be willing to use anyone I was in contact with to manipulate me. And with your position in particular being somewhat precarious, I was unwilling to put you at risk. And besides that, I fear you would . . . disapprove of some of my actions since we last met.”
The jacket would provide no support whatsoever for her injured limb. He went to the replicator and input the commands for a properly designed sling. “And what is it that you’ve been doing, besides saving people?” The replicator hummed to life, and the sleeve of black fabric materialized.
“Hunting Bjayzel. Every chance I get. Haven’t caught her yet, but I have . . . disposed of a number of her employees, who were involved in murdering XBs.”
He gazed at the replicator. Days like today, I envy the simplicity of its existence.
Then he grabbed the sling and returned to her side, steadily avoiding eye-contact as he began to put it on. “So you’re an assassin now.”
She tensed. “I am enacting justice.”
“Murder isn’t justice, Seven. Look—” He held up his hands, and the sling fell to the floor. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I won’t condone killing. But these people killed Icheb—” She glared. He stumbled on “—and many other XBs and you were traumatized. Your friends here will understand, and we’ll do our best to protect you from Starfleet. And when you’re back—”
“I’m not coming back, Doctor.”
He had bent down to pick up the sling, and the words sunk into him like lead. It took every bit of willpower to stand up again and face her, with the hurt raw on his face. “Then why did you come here at all? You just told me that it’s dangerous, for you and me. I’m sure there were other, closer, medical bases wherever you were injured.”
Her features were utterly impassive as she pushed straggly hair behind her shoulder and shook her head. “Not this time. I was on a rare flyby, checking on some refugees we placed before heading back out. Some debris caught my ship.” The card chirruped under her jacket, and she glanced towards it. “That’s my ride.”
Ten minutes. She’d given him ten minutes, after two years of silence. But what was the point of arguing? He was clearly nothing but a walking dermal-generator and medication dispenser to her. Their friendship was gone.
He nodded. “At least let me fit that sling before you leave?”
She acquiesced, and he did so, then fetched a hypospray with the appropriate course of antibiotics in and handed it over. As he gave her instructions on dosage and frequency, he found himself counting down the seconds until she transported away and he could sit down and have a good cry for an hour or two.
Finally she stood to leave, a little more steadily this time, and he was on the point of offering cold best wishes for her future, when, hugging her bad arm to herself, she said softly, “I may need to check on the refugees again in a few months. I could pay another short visit.”
It was a terrible idea. Clearly, she was at risk of arrest just being here, and him too probably. It sounded like she had definitely strayed far from Starfleet’s ideals of justice and fairness, and if she was no longer used to friendship, chances were further contact would only bring him pain.
“I’d like that,” he said quickly. “Consider my doors always open.”
She nodded, wordlessly and without a smile. And that was all the hope he was given to hang his hat on, as at that moment a transporter beam took her, leaving his office as empty as it had ever been.